


Not so hostile banters

by Kassielle



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kassielle/pseuds/Kassielle
Summary: A bunch of drabbles I wrote on Fate!Sheriarty





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> That one time when Holmes was wounded in Lostbelt 1 (and I didn't know how swvwre it was until recently)

Fights at the Lostbelt were rather severe, and they didn’t have the time to use Rayshift or bring everyone to medics and healers. As so, Sherlock Holmes, conscious and with ability to move around, was left in care of James Moriarty, well-known as the professor with an exceptional knowledge. It wouldn’t be so hard to look after him, please, I beg you, Professor, said Master and left running for other Servants.

“How careless, my dear,” Moriarty’s voice was irritated, as he was treating Holmes’ wounds with antiseptic and sterile bandage. “One more inch to the side, and you could have bid farewell to your neck or any other important organ.”

“I know, sir. I know that perfectly well. But sir, were it you, you would have defended our Master as recklessly.”

“Well… I guess you are right.”

“And…”

“What?”

“Did you say ‘my dear’?”

Moriarty froze, pressing the bandage into Holmes’ arm. Holmes was silently waiting for the answer despite the pain from the touch.

“You misheard it.”

“I guess so.”

“Seems like I need to bring here another Servant, more knowledgeable in medicine, so I’ll have to leave you for some time. Hold on, okay?”

“It’s not like I’ll pass out in mere five minutes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one time, when they tried board games.

Anyone else could only wonder, if sir Moriarty ever ran out of hatred and poison: it was hidden in every word, every conversation, every discussion and argument. Their daily banters could've shaken Chaldea facility from top to bottom, if not for Mashu or Fran successfully distracting Moriarty in one or another way.

Sherlock Holmes himself always considered their encounters as highly amusing and very cute.

(And for God's sake don't ever let him show it in any possible way).

There was relative lull after the day Master hesitantly suggested both of them:

"Have you considered playing chess instead of..."

They hesitated.

"Ha, what a nonsense."

"No, we hadn't yet. Do you want to guess who'll win, Master?"

Two gazes were practically piercing Master, so they shifted their eyes, flustered, and left the room mumbling "I'll bring the board here".

The main room was crowded. Sometimes it was one of Tamamo, fleeing from celtic womanizers aka Fionn or Fergus and attempting to find an earring. Sometimes it were Mozart, Tristan and Salieri, discussing in loud whisper the string instruments in a medieval ballad. Sometimes it was either Mordred or Artoria cajoling food from Emiya. One could hear Bedivere, begging Elizabeth to rehearse elsewhere, or Cu Chulainn bargaining for a spear with his Lancer counterparts, or Paracelsus debating with Avicebron whether the cyanide belonged to the alchemist stone.

The ceiling could crash around these two, and they'll be still playing.

There was a small blackboard near the table, chalk lines across it indicating victories, five vertical and one horizontal. "How romantic," said once Edmon Dantes, passing their table, "are you prisoners of your own foolishness?" He left laughing, but neither of chess players didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Check."

"Dear sir, please indulge in looking closer, it's a stalemate."

"No, it isn't."

"You are cheating, dear sir."

"And you, sir, are trying to cheat in the most honest game of humanity."

"Is it so, huh... Hey, Master", Moriarty spoke to the Master who were crossing the room, "do you have any other game for tired minds? Because I, for one, do not intend to play checkers with this cheeky bastard. He claimed that the two of my pawns were defeated before he _accidentally_ dropped the board.”

“Dear sir, you’re accusing me of your own wrong deeds.”

“Sir, your words force me to demand satisfaction from you.”

“Um, did you two tried backgammon? Or Monopoly, or Jenga, or… guess I’ll ask around Chaldea.”

Master quietly left the room, while these two were discussing their future duel.

For the time being the blackboard showed the score: six to seven for Sherlock Holmes.

Shinjuku was raided and left in one piece, and now Chaldea could boast a wide spectrum of board games; only doctor Roman (may his soul rest in peace) could count and name them all. Any new game would reset their blackboard to a blank state. They didn’t have all that many spectators, though: Servants were rather bored with their banters now, and recently they had discovered a small room near the library, which was ideal for any kind of mind game. 

They remained loyal to chess, of course, after all the board games had exhausted themselves.

“Say, do you mind playing for a wish, mister Holmes?”

“I do hope that your wish is realistic and will not do any harm to our Master, professor”

“Oh don’t say something so crude. Gentleman doesn’t break his words; besides, we both signed the contract with Chaldea.”

“What a bold lie.”

“I may lie,” he said, and and somehow light flashed in his glasses, “but still you are playing along.”

Holmes laughed:

“You’re right. Well, pass the board here.”

“Don’t you go easy on me.”

“Sir, would you like to be reminded of our last score? Or have you already got senile? It’s a shame, how your age is…”

The board rattled as it fell on the table. Sherlock smiled and started to arrange the pieces.

The room was quiet, except for small sounds: the screech of an armchair, rhythmic movement of a sweep hand and the rattle of pieces being moved. Almost all the time Sherlock was sitting with his fingers locked, focused on the game. Moriarty sent ominous glances at him after his turns, but got pensive after Sherlock’s. No one complained about the long pauses between the turns or that there were less and less pieces on the board. No one was there to complain to begin with.

“Check,” Moriarty moved one of the remaining knights.

“Not at all,” Sherlock moved the pawn.

“Check,” repeated Moriarty, and the bishop joined the knight.

“Hm,” answered Sherlock, and after the short pause he removed the king from the attack line. Moriarty stared at the board for some time, then the triumphant smile brightened his face as he moved the queen:

“Checkmate.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock keenly looked at the chessboard, like he was expecting some kind of reinforcements, but then he shook his head, “you are right, professor. The victory is yours, as well as the wish we played for.”

His smile was gone, and he looked dim, dark, out of place, even closed his eyes for some reason. Sherlock got worried after several minutes of silence; he wondered if that wish held such importance to Moriarty. Somehow Sherlock remembered how Moriarty was complaining about his back several times. Maybe now was the time he felt discomfort, thought Sherlock and decided to check him out.

He left his unbelievably comfortable armchair and made few steps towards Moriarty, reaching for a small mirror to check his breathing.

“Mister Holmes, I demand that you kiss me right now,” his voice was close to a whisper, and eyes were still shut.

Sherlock froze in place and there was doubt in his eyes, but Moriarty didn’t move an inch, still limp in his armchair.

“James Moriarty, old devil, you are so bull-headed,” with a small laugh Sherlock bent over and kissed his forehead. “Did I grant your wish?”

Moriarty tried to wither him with a look:

“You know, I implied…”

“Anything you implied you should have specified in the first statement. And you’re calling yourself a lawyer?”

Moriarty didn’t have the time to object as this time Sherlock bent lower and kissed him in earnest.


End file.
